


C is for CCTV (and caring)

by Antheas_Blackberry



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: CCTV, Don't copy to another site, Gen, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Sherlock's previous drug use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-18
Updated: 2019-01-18
Packaged: 2019-10-12 08:31:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 2,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17464076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Antheas_Blackberry/pseuds/Antheas_Blackberry
Summary: A series of short pieces about Mycroft Holmes and how he uses CCTV to his advantage. Mycroft centric.





	1. Into the Drug Den

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for the fanbook some 2 years ago. I thought I had posted it! Thanks to @Lavender_And_Vanilla for reading it over a zillion times at the time.

Before John Watson walked into Bart’s Hospital, changing his and Sherlock’s lives forever, Sherlock was a mess. He behaved erratically--alienating friends and family, abusing drugs, and refusing rehab. Mycroft devoted considerably more of his time than he really had in tracking Sherlock’s movements and ensuring his brother was safe.

Until one day- there was no trace of his younger sibling.

Ignoring his responsibilities, Mycroft frantically trawled through CCTV footage, focusing on the areas around Montague Street where Sherlock lived, and his other haunts. It took some time scanning the grainy footage from various cameras situated throughout the city, but finally he caught a glimpse of the back of Sherlock’s head, ducking down a dark alleyway.

Bowing his head, Mycroft took a deep breath, trying to quell the panic that was rising inside him. After a moment, he grabbed his coat and umbrella and left his office. 

He did not call for his car. Instead, he hailed a cab, giving the driver the address of the last sighting of his younger brother. Sitting in the backseat, the elder Holmes began to calculate the odds of finding his brother alive. Then his thoughts rapidly shifted; how would he explain this to their parents? They would never forgive him. . . not after. . . . 

Sherlock was his responsibility, Mummy would remind him.

Mycroft was so engrossed in his thoughts that the cabbie had to speak to him twice to alert him that they had arrived at the requested destination. He apologised for his distraction and paid the driver. Grabbing his umbrella, he exited the vehicle. 

Mycroft stood on the street, rapidly taking in his surroundings. Being an unsavoury neighbourhood, there were not many people about. Shoulders pulled back, he exhaled slowly and headed down the filthy alleyway. 

There was nothing to indicate Sherlock was still in the area, until Mycroft reached end of the narrow roadway. Haphazardly stuck to a corner of an abandoned and overflowing skip was a scrap of blue material. 

The piece of material in question was a remnant from Sherlock’s cashmere scarf; the one Mycroft had given him on his most recent birthday. Unsure if the scrap was there by accident or by design, Mycroft examined the area in front of him; skip, bin bags piled high, assorted flotsam and jetsam of times long since passed.

Grimacing, he examined the building behind the skip. A metal fire door was the only indicator that one could access the building from this position. Curious, Mycroft reached out a gloved hand toward the door and pushed. It opened with a loud and piercing squawk. Squaring his shoulders, he made his way inside.

Mycroft was not prepared for the fetid stink of the interior of the building; mould, urine, rotting organic material permeated the air. Removing a handkerchief from his pocket, he pressed it to his nose, trying to breathe shallowly as possible. The room he had entered was dim. He took his mobile out and turned on the application for the flashlight, illuminating the area in front of him.

It was a neglected warehouse, strewn with rancid garbage, most likely from parties and drug deals long since concluded. The building itself looked like it had long been left to rot on its own. There was further evidence of squatters and the homeless with the occasional canned good, candle, and cardboard box strewn haphazardly about.

Mycroft slowly crossed the room, examining the detritus for anything that would indicate Sherlock’s presence, all his senses on high alert. A soft scratching sound stopped him in his tracks, but he quickly realised that it was only a rat. Repressing a shudder, he moved on cautiously as he scanned the room.

The light from his flashlight glinted off an object in the corner. Closer inspection revealed it was a doorknob leading to the unknown. Once in front of it, he listened carefully- nothing. He placed his gloved hand on the doorknob and turned it. Surprisingly, it made no sound.

Mycroft carefully crept into the room, the light from his flashlight now muted by his thumb, diffused in case there was danger lurking in the shadows. When nothing leapt out at him, he allowed the light to fully shine into the room.

It was immediately clear to Mycroft that he had entered a drug den. Debris from drug usage was everywhere. Empty baggies and long rusted, discarded needles were scattered about the floor. He was disgusted by what he saw and afraid of what he might yet find.

He crossed the room slowly, and watching his step, carefully turned the corner. Here, there were several mattresses along the wall. A body occupied one of them; one with long, matted curly hair. Sherlock.

Mycroft immediately crossed the room and squatted down beside his brother. He removed his glove and pressed it to Sherlock’s neck, searching frantically for a pulse. He found one, barely evident, but there. He sunk to his knees on the ground, pulling Sherlock to him. 

“Oh Sherlock,” he cried out. ‘What have you done?”


	2. A Study in CCTV Cameras

It was a normal day in the life of Mycroft Holmes until Anthea, his ever-efficient PA, notified him that his brother appeared to have acquired . . . a friend. He took a moment to read the briefing that had been provided. Intrigued, Mycroft pulled up the CCTV footage of his brother’s current location.

He watched as Sherlock wandered away from Lauriston Gardens, obviously on the trail of something or other, and then regarded the figure of John Watson, standing on the street. Oh this will be rather amusing, Mycroft thought to himself.

Barely suppressing a grin, Mycroft began to ring various phone boxes along the route that Watson was taking. He watched the good doctor become a mixture of confused, fascinated, and irritated at the ringing following him. Finally, Watson answered. 

“Hello?”

“There is a security camera on the building to your left. Do you see it?”

Mycroft watched as John frowned. “Who’s this? Who’s speaking?”

Mycroft rolled his eyes. “Do you see the camera, Doctor Watson?”

Mycroft watched as John looked through the window of the phone box at the CCTV camera high up on the wall of a building nearby. “Yeah. I see it.”

Finally, the elder Holmes thought to himself. “Watch,” he remarked as he controlled the camera. It had been pointing directly at the phone box. Mycroft expertly angled it so that it was pointing in the opposite direction. 

“There is another camera on the building opposite you. Do you see it?”

John looked across to the second camera, which was also pointed towards the phone box. “Mmm-hmm,” he murmured, unable to turn away as this camera also swivelled in the opposite direction.

Mycroft decided his point had gotten across. “And finally, at the top of the building on your right,” he said.

John watched as this camera turned away. For some reason this last demonstration of power angered him. “How are you doing this?” Watson demanded angrily.

Mycroft had to keep from chuckling. Average people are so amusing, he mused. “Get into the car, Doctor Watson,” Mycroft stated, as the town car pulled up in front of the doctor. He watched as John stared at the driver, who had exited the car and was now holding the door open for him.

“I _would_ make some sort of threat, but I’m sure your situation is quite clear to you,” Mycroft stated before hanging up the phone. Mycroft sat back feeling accomplished, and allowed a moment to relish in his satisfaction. At that moment, his mobile vibrated, and he picked it up to read the incoming message.

Smiling to himself, he rose from his chair, collected his umbrella, and went off to meet Doctor John Watson, formerly of the Northumberland Fusiliers, who had a psychosomatic limp and a completely useless therapist. This really was going to be quite fun.


	3. Lazarus

While Mycroft had often used CCTV to track down his little brother when it pleased him, as well as in making sure that he was keeping out of trouble (and off the sauce), he had decreased his surveillance once John Watson had come into scene. However, now that Moriarty was playing his hand, Mycroft felt it was pertinent to keep tabs on Sherlock once again. Especially as it looked like their plan take down the consulting criminal was about to come to fruition.

Mycroft was aware of all the different plans and eventualities, but when he received the text that merely said LAZARUS, he went ice cold. Taking a deep breath, he opened the lid of his laptop and launched the application that allowed him to view CCTV footage. Connecting to the camera that was focused on the roof of Bart’s Hospital, he watched the two figures move around the roof. 

He cringed as Moriarty pulled a gun on Sherlock and then used it on himself. It was then Mycroft knew that he must reply to the text. With trembling hands, he typed in LAZARUS IS GO and hit send.

He then watched as his younger brother approached the ledge of the roof and removed his mobile, first quickly glancing at the screen, and then placing it to his ear. Mycroft knew what Sherlock was doing. It was all part of the plan, but it still chilled him to the bone to watch. All eventualities had been prepared for, but this was the one plan that he had no desire to see enacted. Not only would he have to watch as Sherlock sacrificed himself for his friends, he would also have to keep up the pretence for what could possibly be years. At least Sherlock had agreed to tell their parents the truth. There were only so many secrets he could keep.

And then Sherlock jumped, and was falling, falling, falling. Mycroft slammed the lid of his laptop down, and splayed his hands out on his desk as if to steady himself. His vision swam and he was momentarily nauseated. He closed his eyes and took several deep breaths. He then rose from his chair, picked up his umbrella with an unsteady hand, and walked out the door.


	4. The Lying Surveillance Cameras

Sherlock went off the rails after Mary died. Mycroft found the entire situation disheartening, as he once again had to keep continuous tabs on his younger brother. His behaviour was erratic and there was no question that he had begun to use drugs again. Mycroft had tried to reason with Sherlock, to get him to pull himself together, but without the steadying and reliable presence of John Watson, it was highly unlikely Sherlock was going to listen. 

What was even more frustrating for Mycroft was that he had to enlist the assistance of his staff in monitoring Sherlock, especially when he was meant not be disturbed. This caused him considerable stress, as Sherlock was his responsibility, no one else’s. 

While Sherlock had remained in 221B for some time, presumably stoned out of his gourd, Mycroft had felt that he would finally be able to accept a meeting with the Prime Minister. This was a prospect he did not relish, with or without his brother’s potential to cause trouble and interference. He left a minion manning the CCTV cameras trained on Baker Street, and headed off to the appointment.

Mycroft had not been with the PM for more than twenty minutes when he received an emergency text alert. Doing his best to contain his irritation, he excused himself from the meeting, and went in search of the person who dared interrupt.

He stormed out of the room and found the individual. He glared at the man in annoyance. “For God’s sake. I was talking to the Prime Minister,” he barked out irritably.

The younger man looked a mixture of sheepish and nervous. “I am sorry, Mr Holmes. It’s your brother.”

Mycroft raised his eyebrows to his hairline in mock surprise. That was what the text code had indicated. Idiots surround me, he thought to himself. Glowering at the young man, he waited impatiently for more information.

“He’s left his flat.”

Mycroft resisted the urge to throttle the man. “Was it on fire?” He asked facetiously. 

The younger man didn’t quite know what to say in response. Barely maintaining his composure, Mycroft finally indicated for the car to be brought around.

Fifteen minutes later, he was back at his office. He entered the surveillance room, not surprised to see Lady Smallwood present. Ever since the previous incident, she had been a thorn in his backside.

Lady Smallwood turned to him. “We can keep tabs. You didn’t have to come in.”

“I was talking to the Prime Minister,” he remarked. He wasn’t sure if he should be thankful or not for the interruption. 

“Oh, I see,” Lady Smallwood, replied blithely. 

They watched the bank of screens, showing Sherlock walking.

“What’s he doing? Why’s he just wandering about like a fool?” 

There was something about Sherlock’s behaviour was terribly concerning, Mycroft thought, and not just because he was wandering around South Bank intoxicated on his own. He was on the verge of recalling what this reminded him of when Lady Smallwood spoke again.

“She died, Mycroft. He’s probably still in shock.”

“Everybody dies. It’s the one thing human beings can be relied upon to do. How can it still come as a surprise to people?” His tone was brusquer than he had intended, but how could he possibly think with all of these distractions?

“You sound cross. Am I going to be taken away by security again?” 

Oh for heaven’s sake. Give me strength, he thought. “I have, I think, apologised extensively.” 

“You haven’t made it up to me.”

“And how am I supposed to do that?” Mycroft inquired, exasperated. He needed a quiet moment to figure out what exactly was going on here. He didn’t have time to deal with Lady Smallwood and her perceived slights.

Thankfully, there was no reply this time.

Mycroft turned away and began to try to call his brother and anyone who might know what on earth he was doing wandering about the city like a drunkard lunatic. He was brought out of his thoughts by laughter, and he looked up sharply.

“What is it? What-what now,” Mycroft demanded in annoyance, looking up at the screens again.

One of the agents, trying to keep the amusement out of his voice replied. “Sorry. Um, traced his route on the map.”

Mycroft, Lady Smallwood, and the others present watched as it was apparent that Sherlock was aware of the surveillance and decided to have a bit of fun with his older brother. His seemingly deranged walkabout was no longer in consideration as Sherlock had managed to spell out FUCK OFF, knowing his movements would be tracked and analysed by Mycroft’s staff.

And as if on queue, Sherlock raised his can in cheers to the nearest camera, almost taunting his brother. Mycroft, watching with his phone pressed to his ear sighed in resigned annoyance, his brow creased. This was typical Sherlock and his dramatics. 

“Is he with someone?” Mycroft inquired to the room. Something about this entire situation was not right at all, and he could feel a prickling at the back of his neck as his anxiety rose. 

“Not sure. We keep losing visual. Mostly we’re tracking his phone,” someone replied.

Mycroft returned his attention to the phone call he now had to make. He didn’t have time for childish games.


	5. The Duet

After the Sherrinford debacle, Sherlock continued to visit Eurus. Mycroft did not encourage the behaviour, but he didn’t have the moral authority to disallow the visits. He was still trying to make it up to his parents, although he still maintained what he did was right. At the very least, Sherlock agreed with him, which was partially why he did not stand in the way of his younger brother’s visits to the island.

Despite continuing to experience nightmares from his own imprisonment at Sherrinford, Mycroft made sure that he was available to monitor, from afar, any visits to the island. It was hard to relinquish trust of anything related to Sherrinford or Eurus to anyone else at this juncture. 

He was not quite sure how to feel as he watched his younger siblings playing the violin, only a pane of glass separating them. The unspoken bond between Sherlock and Eurus made him uneasy. Even after all this time, the sight of them together did not fill him with brotherly pride, but terror. The situation also elicited loneliness and regret, but that may have just been their musical selection.

Listening as the two played a heartbreakingly sad piece, he wondered if he had made the right choices all along.


End file.
